


Dull Teeth

by Strudelgit



Series: lol i killed off all the DA protags [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dead Warden (Dragon Age), F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Warden (Dragon Age) Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-03-27 17:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelgit/pseuds/Strudelgit
Summary: It was supposed to save the both of them,no one would have to die,But the best laid plans of mice and menoften go awry.A few years after the events of DAI, Morrigan senses a familiar presence as she brushes past the fade.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes, so, heads up that there will be mentions of the Dark Ritual with Morrigan and Alistair, and I'll kinda be touching on their feelings about it and each other so this is definitely not a happy fic, at least at first.
> 
> Morrigan and Alistair have, in my opinion, one of the best, most entertaining dynamics and _the_ most interesting and complicated relationship in the entire series, and while them as a pairing isn't _super_ rare, I've had a hard time finding something that explores that dynamic that also includes their relationships with the Warden. Be it for good or ill, they both potentially play a huge part in each other's lives and there are so many things between them that I think would be fascinating to explore. Rivalry, Jealousy, Antagonism, but also that weird loyalty you get with people you're just around all the time, the fact that they both grow up and learn about life at the same rate, respect, a common goal, a shared traumatic experience, and yeah, sexual tension. Hence... this. lol
> 
> And also I just fuckin LOVE "left behind in the fade" fic. Like, Hawke, Straud, Loghain, Alistair I don't care gimme gimme gimme cant get enough and i knoW I CAN'T BE THE ONLY ONE  
> 

It’s in the liminal space between Eluvians that she feels it.

It is not uncommon, when touching the fade, to feel an echo of the spirits residing on the other side. Demons, yes: fear, sorrow, pride, anger, lust, all reach out with their spindly fingers towards her heart, but she is the daughter of Flemeth, has the blood of Mythal, trained in magics the likes of which few outside the Kokori Wilds could even hope to dream of. Smelling out a demon is as simple to her as identifying a color, ignoring them is as second nature as breathing.

Friendly spirits echo their feelings, their thoughts as well. Nowhere nearly as loudly, or obnoxiously, but the notes of their songs are not much different. They do not reach across the veil as aggressively as demons, but the daughter of an elven goddess and her son with an old god’s soul don’t kiss the plane of their existence every day, and even the least curious of them are drawn to the pair to offer harmless greetings and observe as she and Kieran move from place to place. Now that they have left the Inquisition behind, they spend quite a bit of their time traveling through the mirrors. Morrigan does not quite know where they will settle next, but she will know it when she sees it, and brushing the fade while stepping between portals is no more dangerous than traveling over solid ground, even if nosy spirits come to watch.

When Kieran was an infant, he would giggle and wave and play with them as they wisped over him, darting through his fingers and blowing his thin hair into wild shapes, and Morrigan would feel unexpected warmth flood her heart at the sight. Motherhood and all that. He is older now, much more reserved, but he’ll still spend those moments between planes smiling and trailing his hand out to touch them, to commune with them in the way Morrigan remembers trying to as a young woman, when everything about her magic was new and exciting.

They’d taken a step through the glass, and the usual notes of the fade ring through their hearts. Morrigan can sense a rage demon looking their way, but it does not dare approach. Two spirits of creativity approach Keiran, and he smiles politely as they speak of their muses to him. A fear demon skitters alongside, but it is pathetically weak and Morrigan barely registers it.

And then the fade sings a song to her that she’s never, ever heard it sing.

It’s familiar, painfully so.

_She remembers a burning city, the tower overrun with darkspawn. The rotten, corrupted perversion of a dragon… tearing into the guts of her only friend in the world. How Morrigan had screamed, her sorrow, her frustration, her rage tearing through her throat till specks of blood glittered across her teeth._

Morrigan jerks away from her son for one shameful moment as Urthemiel’s roar reverberates through her limbs, an echo of how it had so many years ago.

_It was supposed to save Her. The ritual, the child, following her mother’s plan in the end, she did it so that this would not happen._

_But howling at the unfairness of it all did nothing to bring her Warden back._

Morrigan comes back to herself, a tear running down her cheek. The song is fading. She freezes, in this moment between worlds, and opens her eyes to the Fade. She sees the sickly green and golden light spilling across a landscape in perpetual overcast, a world of water and stone and fog. But the source is not as near as it sounds, and though she scans the space around them, it reveals nothing but the spirits she had already identified earlier. The rage demon slinks away, threatened by her scrutiny.

She will have to venture in.

“Keiran.” She says, “Please wait here. I will return shortly.”

Her son’s attention snaps to her, not out of fear, indeed, there is nothing here that can harm him, but his sharp eyes betray concern. “Are you alright, mother?”

 _Does he not hear it?_ Morrigan wonders. She does not answer him, but smiles to reassure him, before parting the veil, and slipping through.

Following the trail is not difficult. This… thing, it is so different from the material that makes up the Fade. Something about it is perverse, yet, familiar. And as she gets closer, her suspicion grows. Fear demons skitter out of her path. A spirit of Sacrifice stands, stalwart, looking down at her from atop a wall as she passes. An entity hangs like a fog over the area, growing thicker and thicker, and as she continues, the song becomes clearer, as though before she had only heard it through water. Sorrow.

It echoes through her. She knows this sorrow. It is that of a love lost, a mistake made, agony over a moment passed, long long ago.

Morrigan finds him sitting on a boulder. Hunched over, eyes closed, and hair grown out, shaggy and matted. He looks thin, under his warden armor, the light of the Fade casting a sickly green pallor over his already greying skin. This place already doesn’t know what to do with a living being residing in it, even less so one with tainted darkspawn blood, and it shows here: It is like seeing a stone in a pile of pillows, painted the same color. It nearly blends in, but it’s nature is irreconcilable to what surrounds it. He has a mark of death upon him, his colors faded to match the palette of this place-

But he is unmistakably _alive._

“Alistair.” She says, stepping into the clearing.

He does not look up.

 _How?_ How could this be? Morrigan wonders, as she cautiously approaches him, mindful of the sword he has laid upon his lap, though he holds it by the blade. More a comfort than a weapon. The Inquisitor and the Champion had made it clear that there was no possibility of Alistair surviving against the Nightmare that had held them captive. Morrigan has the memory burned into her, how she'd asked, casually, as if it did not concern her. How she'd shown the appropriate amount of sadness that was expected of her, while inside she had no idea what she felt. Relief? Vindication? Grief? Nothing?

Even if he had been miraculously victorious in his stand… The Fade worked mysteriously, sure, but a living soul in this place? It could not last, could it?

She stands before him now. Even if he hadn’t heard her call his name, he would have heard her approach. And yet, he does not move. For a minute it is silent, and then-

“Sorry if you want a turn.” He says, his voice is little more than a croak. “You’re going to have to wait.”

Morrigan frowns. “I am no demon come to torment you, Alistair.”

“Morrigan this time, huh?” He half-chuckles. It’s on the verge of breaking into a sob. “Rage then? Sorry, you’re still going to have to wait.”

Irritation bleeds into her pity. “'Tis me, you fool!” She waves her hand and fog lifts slightly, the entity of Sorrow slinking away, though she senses it hanging around nearby; Alistair clearly presenting too tempting of a meal to leave entirely.

Given its size, it must have been feeding a long, long time.

Alistair still does not look up, though even he must sense the change of environment. Something grasps a hold of Morrigan. "Pity" sounds like the right word for it, but she knows what her pity feels like, and this is not it. She wonders, for a moment, what the Warden saw in him, and she can almost hear Her answers list off.

Wonders, for a moment, what Her list about Morrigan would be.

Morrigan tentatively reaches out, and parts his hair. It is dirty and tangled and disgusting, and it catches against itself and pulls. It must be painful, but Alistair does not react. When she tucks a strand behind his ear, he does not move to stop her, and when she moves her hand to cup his cheek, to tilt up his face, he does not resist, and that, more than anything, tells her how much this place has broken him.

His eyes stay closed, his face is gaunt, but there are no signs she can see of the taint in it’s end stages: the Fade may not have fed the grey warden's body, but it didn't feed his disease either. She brushes her thumb across his cheek. A lone tear spills from under his eyelid and wets her nail.

“Why do you think I would come to you as a rage demon?” She asks, though she knows the answer.

“Because I hate you.” Alistair whispers. “Because she was supposed to live. You promised me that she would live.”

But his voice does not drip with hate, and after a minute of Morrigan running her thumb back and forth over his cheek, too comforting, too maternal, too _real_ a gesture for any demon, he seems to realize it too.

He opens his eyes.

Morrigan’s own throat feels tight, old sorrows she had never spoken aloud, but in this place, to save this soul, she can bare hers.

“I loved her too.”

His eyes bore into hers, feeling out her admission.

A brush of fingers as a wildflower is passed to her, and the way her heart raced at it. The Warden's teeth are a little crooked, Morrigan thinks it's the prettiest smile she's ever seen.

The Fade is odd, in this way: actual words spoken mean little, when their true meaning can be felt. There is little room for misunderstanding, and only the native inhabitants speak the language well enough to lie. 

Morrigan never liked anyone in her space, she’d hissed and clawed at Leliana when the bard had tried to embrace her once, but when it was Her it was almost like she craved it. Like She was a fire, and Morrigan was always cold.

Morrigan knows this, but under Alistair’s scrutiny, she wonders if he understands, if he really knows how much she means it.

When Alistair lay there, afterwards, ashamed and upset, she’d steeled her heart at the roiling emotions waging war in her stomach: Fear, guilt, jealousy, horror, shame… Determination. I will not let Her die. She cannot die. She will not die.

She had broken that promise to herself as much as she had to Alistair.

She can see the moment he realizes she is no more a being of the Fade than he. His face pulls tight into an expression undefinable, and the paint begins to crack.

_“...Morrigan?”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bringing Alistair back to the place parallel to the eluvian is no easy feat. Despite his malnourished frame, he is still heavy, and his legs are atrophied to the extent that he can barely walk. When Morrigan attempts to relieve him of his sword and shield to maybe lighten the load, he scrabbles and pushes at her so desperately that the scuffle sends them both tumbling to the ground. When she tries to reason with him he only shakes his head and glares into the dirt. So they stay on his back.

Demons of all sorts are attracted to the scent of the man’s suffering. Most turn and flee when they catch sight of the witch who carries him, but the boldest of them hang around, eyes glinting hungrily, and the entity of Sorrow slowly, unwaveringly follows them the entire journey. Morrigan grits her teeth in irritation. The being is fat and plump enough that it’s even starting to wear down her walls. 

So when she finally reaches out and grips the veil by the edge and pushes them both through it, she is in no mood to answer Kieran’s questions, and shoves all three of them through the other end of the portal.

They fall out in the crossroads in a heap. Keiran scrabbles out, miffed, but also wary enough of his mother’s foul mood and this stranger’s sudden presence to say nothing. Morrigan rolls Alistair off of her with a groan as Keiran grabs his pack and stalk off to their sanctuary.

Teenagers.

They had initially planned on heading to a small village in Rivain, south of Seere, where Morrigan had heard of a merchant who had gotten a hold of an ancient elvhen text, but it was unlikely now that they would continue on right away. The eluvian that would serve as their exit was high in the eastern mountain range, and Alistair would not be capable of any sort of a hike any time soon.

The man in question is now unconscious. Morrigan snorts.

_ I drag him out of the Fade, and the fool jumps right back into it. _

Upon pondering this for a moment, Morrigan decides it’s probably to be expected, seeing as physically being in the Fade probably meant that the warden hadn’t slept while there, or that whatever shadow of sleep he was permitted was never truly restful. And if he has years of sleep to catch up on…

Morrigan frowns. She relieves Alistair, finally, of his cursedly heavy armaments, and then the easily-removed outer portions of his armor; she can come back and grab them later. Every brush of her hands across jutting ribs and swollen joints has her flinch in revulsion, and she tries not to think of what starving for years must be like. She maneuvers him, much more easily this time, to a stand, and slings him carefully across her shoulders, trying not to think of how it won’t be much longer before her son weighs more than this.

When she reaches their camp; little more than a lean-to covering the opening to a shallow cavern in the ancient stone wall that runs across this place, Keiran has already coaxed a fire into a comfortable size, has a pot of water heating up, and is pulling dried vegetables and jerky out of the cool-box for soup. He eyes their guest suspiciously, but Morrigan ignores him as she lowers Alistair, gently as she can, onto her cot.

She pulls the furs that lie closest to the fire off the ground, and begins to pile the heated layers onto Alistair’s chest. She’d noticed he was cold, once out of the nothingness that is the Fade. Not a lick of fat on him to keep his atrophied muscles warm, and too weak to shiver.

Morrigan almost wonders if it would be more a mercy to kill him.

Almost. Because some unfamiliar part of her can’t bear to even entertain the thought.

Keiran decides then his curiosity outweighs his pride. “Mother, who is he?”

Morrigan takes a moment to think over her answer.

“You remember the grey warden at Skyhold, yes?” Morrigan replies. She rubs Alistair’s chest and shoulders, the tiniest amount of fire magic pushing through her palms, getting his blood circulating. Flesh cold as ice, skin dry as sand; he feels like a corpse. “The one I spoke with while you were playing in the gardens?”

Alistair jolts, and begins to shiver. Good.

“The one who slay the Archdemon? And fought at Ostagar? The one who you traveled with?” Keiran’s interest is piqued, as all young boys are, at the idea of having a renowned hero in their company. “I thought he died?”

“So did I.” Morrigan replies flatly at his boyish glee. “Hurry up with the soup; more meat than vegetables if we can.”

Keiran turns back to the pot, though she can see how his curious gaze continues to wander back to their guest.

She has never told Keiran his father’s identity.

Oh, he’s  _ asked _ , of course, and Morrigan had always given him one of those non-answers that Flemeth had been so good at spinning; never a name. She can never quite understand his fascination, as she’d never cared or even thought to inquire after her own father. She took after Flemeth so strongly, that if Morrigan didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed Flemeth had simply spawned her all on her own. Even Keiran looks like a copy of a young Morrigan, though that is starting to change, now that he’s growing out of boyhood. Dark hair, olive skin, golden eyes. There are no signs at all that he has any blood apart from their ancient line of Chasind witches, and yet, she knows he’s wondered.

Perhaps it is a male thing.

She’d told Keiran stories, instead of a name, of a kind heart, a brave warrior, a humorous soul. The traits of Alistair’s that, though it had taken Morrigan years to acknowledge this, maybe held some value. A person for her son to aspire to be live up to. And maybe some of it was fabricated, especially at first, and some aspects had been borrowed from  _ Her. _ But as time went on, and age sharpened her hindsight, she found that there were more truths than lies. Yes, she and Alistair never got along, but even she couldn’t deny that he was fundamentally a loyal friend, even only as who’d observed it, rather than lived it.

“A good man,” she’d tell Keiran, but never a name.

She’d come close, when Alistair had approached her at Skyhold. But he’d gazed at the boy playing in the garden with such an empty, hollow expression that Morrigan had thought better of it. Not that she’d had expected Alistair to react well to the undeniable  _ evidence _ of everything that had happened during those final days, but the man Keiran had built up in his mind was not this: bitter, callous, haunted.

The man their Warden fell in love with, the man of Morrigan’s stories, was long gone.

When Alistair is warmed to Morrigan’s satisfaction, she withdraws her hands from him with relief. Every pass over his ribs and collarbone makes her ill. Even when Flemeth had left a nine-year-old Morrigan in the middle of the wilds for a month fend for herself, Morrigan has never experienced such malnourishment in a person, and she is finding the sight of it difficult to stomach.

She now knows that the living can survive in the Fade, sure. But it can barely be called  _ living _ .

Keiran finishes cooking as Morrigan quickly checks Alistair over for wounds, but all scars are old, and she doesn’t expect to find any physical injuries anyways: If they hadn’t killed him after fighting the Nightmare, they weren’t going to kill him now.

She uses magic to direct soup down Alistair’s throat, showing Keiran exactly how she prevents it from going down his windpipe. She is rusty, in terms of this sort of magic: She’d learned much from her time spent around Wynne, but Morrigan hasn’t had to manipulate a body like this since Keiran was an infant. She never got along with Wynne, but the old crone sure had a grasp on human anatomy better than any Morrigan has ever known, and when Oghren had been so badly poisoned that the old mage had to draw the toxins directly out of his veins, Morrigan had been impressed enough to ask about the basics.

She wishes Wynne were here now. Healing… was never Morrigan’s forte. And even she can admit that the Mage had had a certain calming, maternal aura about her. Something she desperately wants to provide for her son, and doesn’t even know how. Something that Morrigan realizes she has experienced very little of herself.

Odd, now that she is finally free of the bitch, she finds herself thinking more and more of Flemeth. Maybe even understanding her.

Keiran goes to bed, after asking Morrigan to tell the story of Fen’Harel and the mabari for the hundredth time. She obliges him, more than aware that he’s trying to butter her up to the idea of taking in a pet, but her opinions of dogs have not improved much over the past fourteen years, and she’d rather chop off her own arm than deal with a slobbering creature with a walnut for a brain digging through her things again and stinking up the place.

She waits after that thought, though she’s not sure why.

Morrigan realizes, suddenly, that no snappy, witty, two-pronged defence of Barkspawn, a beast who must be years-long dead by now, would be coming.

How easy it is, to fall back into old habits, even when the cause is as conscious as a brick.

Alistair makes no sound, but for the shallow pull and push of air from his lungs. Morrigan could insult mabari all she likes, and she would hear no protest. None at all.

Morrigan has no idea, what happened to the mutt, after it all.

Too tired, suddenly, to set up another cot, she piles up the remaining furs on the floor. Morrigan lays down, and draws an old, moth-eaten quilt over herself. The fire is down to coals now, and the orange glow lulls her to sleep amidst memories of companions around a different campfire, long, long ago.

 

* * *

  
  
To Morrigan’s surprise, she awakes the next morning to the sound of eggs sizzling hot onto the frying pan. Kieran looks over sheepishly as she stirs, puzzled at the early hour. Time works strangely at the crossroads, but it was early yet, especially for Kieran.

“Sorry mother,” He says, sending a small wisp of magic from his fingertips to bank the flame. “But I think the Grey warden might need to be fed again.”

He points over at Alistair, who has been rolled onto his side. A bowl is placed near his head. Morrigan frowns as she smells the sharp scent of vomit.

“He started choking in the night, and the sound woke me up.” Keiran explains. “I, uh, cleaned up best I could, when he was sick, after I tried to help, that is.”

Morrigan slowly gets up, stretching her protesting back. All those furs were not enough to protect her from the hard ground, and she is honestly getting a bit old for it. “Why did you not wake me?” She asks.

“I tried.” Kieran frowns. “You were held tight within memories in your dreams, I could not get you to stir.”

Morrigan smiles reassuringly, though Kieran's words worry her. Venturing through the Fade must have taxed her more than she’d anticipated. “I'm awake now.” She says. “But t’is a bit early for breakfast, no?”

Kieran mumbles something that Morrigan doesn't quite catch.

“What was that?”

“He’s so thin, mother…” He looks over to Alistair, a strange look in his eye. “I couldn't go back to sleep knowing he has an empty stomach.”

Morrigan fights back a smile at her son’s compassion, a trait she can never claim to have inspired in him. She wonders, not for the first time, whether this is the beauty of Urthemriel, the purity of the old god’s soul, or something simpler, something more human. Something she’d never put much stock in.

“You’re right.” She says. “And we do not know what effect the Fade has on a living body, especially for such a long time. ‘Tis best to try and keep him alive.”

“What do you think happened?” Keiran asks.

She gives the man on the cot a long look as the academic side of her takes over. And, oh, how she would love to study this, as someone who’s physically walked the Fade more than most people even realized they were in it whilst dreaming. That Alistair, as wasted away as he is, still breathes, is a puzzle she cannot resist. 

“This is purely speculation,” She starts. “But 'tis likely that he’s…. Well. Effectively died already. Perhaps many times over, even. And because his spirit was already where it wanted to go, it simply never left his body.”

Keiran looks disturbed at this. “How awful…. To be constantly dying.”

“Yes.” Morrigan agrees, silent on the fact that that effectively sums up the life of a warden. “But then… if that had been the case, his spirit would have stayed behind as we passed through the veil.” 

Her gaze wanders past the entrance of their lean-to, towards the Eluvian she knows will take her to the ancient, abandoned library filled with texts that she’s been steadily adding to for the past seven years. Perhaps she would find answers there. A smell stirs her out of her thoughts.

“Keiran? your eggs are burning.”

Keiran jerks back to the pan from where he’d been previously staring at Alistair again. He sheepishly scrapes what he can into a bowl. “Maybe physical bodies in the Fade are in stasis of a sort?”

“Perhaps. Though it seems without anything to eat, that his body was still consuming itself. And there is, of course, the taint to consider- Oh, don’t eat those Keiran, we have enough eggs.” Keiran looks up from where he was about to bite into a sad, charred mess to meet his mother’s judgemental look.

_ Teenagers!  _

“I’ll make us a new batch," Morrigan huffs. "And we can see if you remember how to feed the Warden.”

“Mother, I know he’s unconscious and wouldn’t know any better," He replies. "But it would be cruel to feed him  _ this _ .” There’s a sparkle in his eye that’s telling Morrigan he’s having her on, and, ohhhhh, that buffoonery is not Old God soul or Chasind Witch blood  _ at all _ .

“Yes, and there is no reason to afflict  _ yourself _ with such a cruelty either.” She rolls her eyes. “Just toss them.”

He does, and she fixes up a proper breakfast for the two of them, while Keiran practices his reading, as well as a rather unappealing concoction of scrambled egg, oats, nug fat, milk, spindleweed, and elfroot, all ground together into paste for Alistair. It looks absolutely disgusting, but Keiran was right: it’s not like the man can object to the taste… though Morrigan can all too easily imagine his whining about it anyways. She lets Keiran magic it down Alistair’s throat this time, and he gets the hang of it easily enough.

After finishing their meal though, Morrigan finds herself unsure.

They cannot leave Alistair alone. Until he heals, he’s as helpless as a babe, and despite their contempt for one another, Morrigan is not so stone-hearted to let him wither away and pass into the Fade for good.

So what to do with him?

He cannot go to the Anderfels. The nearest undamaged Eluvian to Weisshaupt that she’s found so far exits in the Western end of Tevinter. A several week’s journey, and she dare not travel through there. Even if they weren’t burdened with an invalid, the slave uprising in the Imperium would make targets of her and Keiran in the eyes of both the Chainbreakers and the Magisters. 

Morrigan’s not even sure if Weisshaupt is an option. Her last exchange with Leliana had been months ago now, but it seemed as though there was turmoil in the Warden ranks as well. Something about a coup.

She doesn’t have enough strings to pull anymore at the Orlesian Court to leave him with any of her contacts there, not that she trusts anyone there enough to seriously consider it anyways. A Ferelden of the royal bloodline would be at immense risk; there are simply too many players of the Game who wouldn’t be able to resist that kind of leverage.

There was the Inquisition, of course, or what remained of it. But it’s been officially disbanded for a few years now, and Morrigan doesn’t actually know how to find them anymore, or whether they even still have the resources to take Alistair in. Getting in contact alone could take a few weeks.

Honestly, with the uprising in the Imperium, the civil wars in the Anderfels and amongst the Dalish, the Qunari infiltration in Orlais.... There are very,  _ very _ good reasons Morrigan has stayed off the grid.

So her research will simply have to be put on hold. Her camp here is well-stocked enough, and safe from the outside world. The Elvhen text she was seeking would not be going anywhere: from her correspondence with the Rivainni merchant, it sounded as though he couldn’t get rid of the thing if he tried They have plenty to read and study to stave off boredom, and a very, very secret part of Morrigan is glad to have company. She knows this life makes Keiran lonely, and they’ve already had a few fights the last few times they’d been displaced. A ferelden war hero who slay an archdemon is enough to inspire his curiosity and excitement, and Morrigan reminds herself to leave the Warden texts out where he will find them when he inevitably goes down that rabbit hole. He’ll have a million questions by the time Alistair recovers.

Morrigan tries not to think about what she will do when he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im like half asleep so i hope thers not too many typos.... i'l fix it tomorrow XD


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days pass uneventfully. Morrigan piles herself up a proper amount of furs to sleep on without waking up stiff, and sets up their shelter up properly for a longer stay; replacing the old fire runes along the stream with freshly charged ones to heat the water for bathing, shaking out the dusty rugs and pelts and blankets that have been sitting about, and breaking the stasis spells on the crates that contain their food stores. Keiran becomes rather adept at taking care of Alistair, though he is not so mature that he doesn’t conveniently disappear whenever the comatose man soils himself. Times like these, Morrigan has never been more thankful for magic in her life, though she can never entirely convince herself that the smell of sweat and vomit isn’t lingering somewhere, no matter how many times she magics the foulness away. 

It is noon, three days now since finding Alistair in the Fade. And while Keiran lies in his corner, meticulously sketching a bear, and Alistair sleeps, Morrigan crosses the cobblestone and dirt path to step through the mirror that leads to her library.

It exists in a pocket dimension, similar to the crossroads itself. Not quite of the Fade, but not a space that exists on any map either. There is no roof to this place, and the sky is perpetually overcast, but there is never wind nor rain nor any weather at all, and the books here have been perfectly preserved for thousands of years. The floors are granite, the towering shelves are made of ironbark, and the windows look out over an infinite sea in every direction, reflecting the golden light of a sunset, though there is no sun to be found.

A lonely room in space.

A fixed point in time.

An island, in every sense of the word.

Morrigan loves this place. Stepping through the eluvian to the sight of such a collection; ancient, safe, and untouched… The first time, she had wept at her discovery, and it still fills her heart with joy every time she enters. It is the epitome of everything she finds precious in the world. Magic and knowledge made immortal. A place so secret and lost to time, that not even spirits have stumbled upon it. And, oh, she had asked  _ many _ . Only through the knowledge imparted to Morrigan from the Well of Sorrows had she even found hint of its existence.

She wanders to the shelf she had organized the scant collection of warden texts to. One, a tale of heroics from the fourth blight, with frivolous prose about griffons and sacrifice, she sets aside for Keiran. The others that she pulls out are much more technical: early versions of the joining ritual, an ancient collection of arcane and scientific studies done on the taint, and first-hand accounts of wardens who descended into madness, from a time when they didn’t know better than to resist the Calling.

The last thing she picks up is not of Warden origin, but elvhen. A sister tome to the one she seeks from Rivain. It is one of the most in-depth studies and explanations of the Fade that Morrigan has ever read, and she is almost certain that the vein of knowledge held within is what led to the very creation of the veil.

But it is  _ horrendously _ complicated.

It is more than simply arcane knowledge, like Morrigan is used to interpreting from observations on the Fade. It is history, it is maths, it is sciences that have been lost for millennia. Subjects that for the elves of Arlathan had been common knowledge, what with their immortal life spans to spend in study.

She has spent at least the past two years attempting to decipher it, but too much is referential and requires the other book for her to have made any significant headway.

She wonders now, if she reads it again with an mind seeking the answer to the question of Alistair’s survival, if any new revelations will come to her. Or at least, if it will point her in the right direction.

She runs her finger reverently down the faded maroon spine, as though asking fate itself for answers this time around, before gently withdrawing the book from the shelf and adding it to her small pile.

When she turns back to the mirror, she nearly drops the precious books from her arms, and her heart stutters.

The moment passes, and Morrigan stands there, frowning, for several minutes, trying to trace the shape of what she saw in her mind’s eye. Thoughts racing through what she knows of eluvians, of spirits and demons and the Fade. 

But the image blurs, her memory of it already sifting through fingers like sand, and she cannot pull it back. The only thing that had cemented in time, and yet had still vanished quick enough that she is not entirely convinced she’d seen anything at all, was the glint of a pair of eyes.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan’s unease doesn’t dissipate easily, even after returning to camp. As she expected, Keiran is delighted by the grey warden history, and is so enthralled by it that Morrigan can see him still reading into the late hour of the night, using magic to keep the fire going until she scolds him for staying up so late.

But even when she can see the rise and fall of his chest even out, and the embers are dull enough that their light no longer penetrates her eyelids, she finds sleep eluding her.

She is all too aware of the mirrors.

Where before, they sent a thrill of excitement through her veins, each a world of mysteries and discovery nothing more than a step away, she now sees open doors.

Hundreds and hundreds of open doors.

Morrigan is no fool; she’s known all along that she is not the only person to have discovered the workings of these artifacts, and is not even the only person to hold the keys of so many. But even when she’d heard of the Qunari attempting to invade Halamshiral a few years ago, it had seemed an issue with little to do with her: She was well travelled in the crossroads, and the corner in which the Qunari had seized control may as well have been a continent away. This area that she and Keiran frequented was quite remote.

The thought that someone, or  _ something _ , knew she was there, knew the  _ library  _ was there, and had been curious enough to approach with nothing more than the veil to separate them… it sends chills down her spine, and raises her heartbeat the same way as a pack of wolves stalking the camp do.

Morrigan attempts to reason with herself: She is the only person who could possibly have the key to that place. The blood magic ritual involved with obtaining access had been explicit in this. The library respected age, purity, and power. Her own blood, combined with that of Keiran’s, freely given, assures her position as the portal’s master. Nothing short of another uncorrupted old god soul would be able to usurp her as long as she lived. No demon, no matter how powerful or old, would be able to pass through the veil there uninvited, and Morrigan was  _ very  _ careful not to cast blood magic there.

Most likely, it was a spirit of Knowledge, pressed up against the other side, thirsty for the words written on the pages, but too shy to hold her gaze. 

With a nod, as if assuring herself, Morrigan turns over on her pelts to lay on her opposite side, now with her back to the eluvians.

And locks eyes with Alistair.

He looks…. Exhausted. Even more so, somehow, than when he was passed out and teetering on the brink of death. It’s the lines around his eyes, and the way his lids sag ever so slightly, though his gaze is sharp and steady. The moonlight, bright outside, reflected, glittering, shining, through them.

There is a tension here, and Morrigan does not know what to say, or whether to say anything at all. Does Alistair even remember the Fade? Does he remember being left behind? Does he remember being found?

Her pulse quickens.

Does he remember what Morrigan confessed?

But if there was ever something that Alistair was good at, it was breaking tension, and the corner of his lip twitches up slightly, as if this whole situation was funny.

“I had…. The craziest dream…. I think.” His voice is as hoarse from disuse as it was before. He frowns, then. “Nightmares and- But I must still be dreaming… mirrors and mirrors and mirrors and- You.” He glances at her attire, brows creasing. “Wearing a full shirt? Crazy.... I must have gone crazy.”

Morrigan snorts, and oh, how comfortably she slips into the banter. “You say that as though you had any sanity to begin with... Tis’ not a sane man who throws himself into the jaws of a nightmare, after all.”

Alistair sobers at this immediately, as though for that moment he had forgotten, or convinced himself it really had all been the fabrication of a mad mind, or somehow forgotten the company he was in. He breaks her gaze, and looks past, out to the endless path of mirrors that shimmer with moonlight.

“...How long?”

“Four years.” Morrigan replies quietly. “Give or take.”

He closes his eyes. “Maker….”

He brings his hand up to rub at his face, but flinches the moment it makes contact. He stares at it, shocked by its weak, knobbly shape. Morrigan watches him as he steels himself, and attempts to flip back the heavy covers he lies under. He manages to get them aside, and sit up slightly, but it is clear he expects more strength from his body, and merely those few exertions cause his lungs to work harder than would be normal. He inspects himself, with grim determination, tracing ribs, feeling the jut of his collarbone. It is as disturbing now as it was when Morrigan had lay him down, and she turns her gaze away, searching in the near-dark for the nearest waterskin.

“Corypheus?” He finally asks.

Morrigan’s lip curls, remembering the hefty weight of the corrupted dragon’s throat between her jaws, the moment before it slammed her to the stone and knocked her out cold, where she thought for sure she’d be victorious. That would be her last act blindsided by pride, she’d vowed. If the Inquisitor and her party had not finished the beast off…

Her hand curls around the container she’s searching for, and she sits up as well.

“Nothing more than a tale to scare children with, now.” She answers Alistair. “And an example with which to embarrass the Imperium. The Inquisition succeeded, the breach was sealed, and he is no more.” 

Alistair smiles bitterly. “So it wasn’t all for nothing.”

Morrigan stays silent, handing him the waterskin. He takes it, and manages to take a sip, eyebrows furrowing at his difficulty (a weakened throat, a side effect of being fed magically, but Alistair doesn't need to know that), and a little bit dribbles down his chin. His eyes are closed, but her silence does not go unnoticed, and she can see him clench his jaw, swallow heavily, as he works up the nerve to ask.

“What…. What happened to the wardens?”

But Morrigan does not want to tell him. The same way she could not look him in the eye after  **She** fell.

Morrigan has broken the news to Alistair once before of his sacrifice being worthless, and she is not eager to do it again.

Tis’ easier, instead, to lash out. Barbed, thorny, prickly words are painful, yes, but less so than to club him with the bluntness of honesty. And the thing is, she  _ knows _ Alistair. She knows exactly where the softest parts of his heart lie, exactly where the truth would hit, and though he would never believe it, she is not so gleefully cruel to subject him to it. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

“What were you hoping to achieve?” Morrigan hisses, mindful of the teenager still asleep not ten feet away. “I know you to be a fool, Alistair, but that was idiocy beyond even what I expect from you!  _ You knew _ you were the only grey warden who knew the truth behind the false calling!  _ You knew _ you were the only one who could hope to lead the wardens again! And you were, what? Once again so unwilling to take leadership that you’d rather  _ die!? _ ”

Alistair’s face pulls into furious frustration almost immediately.

“They drove me out Morrigan!” The words come out in a tumble. A wheeze throttles his volume, and Alistair gasps to catch his breath. “ “I- I  _ told  _ them the truth and they’d rather brand me a traitor... lop off my head... than listen to me!”

He slows down. Glares. “Hawke has family in the Wardens. Hawke is a champion of the Free Marches. The kind of person people  _ want  _ to follow! Me?” He laughs bitterly. “I was- I  _ am  _ the fucking leftover of a conflict no one even seems to remember anymore. I abdicated the throne, I’m not even the last of the Theirin’s anymore. I don’t  _ matter. _ ”

Alistair, thankfully, misses how Morrigan’s carefully keeps her face blank at the Champion’s name. At Alistair’s presumptuous predictions. He has no idea what his decision cost, and she curses her newfound empathy that keeps her from spitting it at him.

“And who would miss me, once I was gone?” He points out. “Who  _ did  _ miss me? No one, that’s who.”

“No one indeed.” Morrigan snaps. “Very well, should I drop you back in? Now that you’re awake and coherent and grating my nerves?”

Alistair frowns and looks away again, almost sheepish. “I… no. Sorry.” He says. “Thank you, Morrigan. For getting me out.”

Morrigan’s not yet sure if the man truly understands what she saved him from yet. Or even if she can guess it herself. But his words are unexpected, what with their history, and, though his tone is flat and awkward, Morrigan feels a strange relief wash over her as she gives a terse nod in acknowledgement.

And then feels that relief flee just as when Alistair opens his mouth again.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” 

With that, Morrigan is pushed over the line in the sand her pity had drawn. She glares, hating him in this moment. Hating him for forcing her to feed his hatred of her. She cannot sugarcoat it. It is not in her nature, and he knows this. Oh, he may despise himself, for failing at Ostagar, for failing the crown, for failing Her.

But he will always hate Morrigan more than he hates himself.

Very well. So be it.

She snatches the waterskin from his pathetic grip and takes a long drink. She wishes it were wine. Or something stronger. She swallows and grits her teeth.

“After you  _ chose _ to remain in the Fade, the Champion led the wardens to Weisshaupt.” She says. “There’d been tension for a long time, if you’ll recall, between the First Warden and the King of the Anderfels. The common people had looked more to the Wardens for leadership than King Einhardt, for a time, but about a year after the breach was sealed, they’d set up their own government, separate from the monarchy. Something with elected representatives…” Morrigan sneers. “I was never much one for political theory.”

She takes another sip of water to stall. Alistair watches.

Morrigan continues. “The First Warden did not approve: he’d put himself in a position to be the effective ruler of the Anderfels, after Einhardt were to pass away, and this new system would rob him of the power he wanted. So, he took the order and used it to impose martial law over the land.”

“The Champion attempted to convince the Orlesian wardens not to follow the First Warden, but,” Morrigan’s eyes narrow. “T’was an unsuccessful argument. They would not trust an outsider over orders from Weisshaupt. Not even one  _ ‘people want to follow.’ _ ” She says, in a mockery of Alistair’s former tone.

Morrigan watches his face carefully for a reaction, but it is as bare of emotion as a stone. 

“The Champion sided with the democratic Anders, and, at first, it seemed a symbolic stand more than anything, at least from what I’d heard. Barely any news was coming out of Hossberg, so even despite Hawke’s many connections, there was no outside support for them. And there were enough Anders who still were enamored of the Wardens, and were willing to accept their rule, that if there were to be a fight at all, it would be decided swiftly.”

Morrigan fiddles with the cork. She’s almost certain Keiran is awake, and listening intently. She can hear his breathing, too consciously slow to be from sleep.

“At first?” Alistair asks, quietly.

Morrigan nods. “Til’ the First Warden started recruiting.”

“He had decided,” She says. “Not entirely incorrectly, that the Warden’s numbers had fallen dangerously low. The solution seemed so simple: He had a significant population at his beck and call who could be easily convinced to join, all the while strengthening his claim to power. But he’d forgotten one thing.” Morrigan smirks humorlessly. “The Anders are a  _ terribly _ religious people. Oh, they could squirm at the rumors of the Orlesian mages using blood magic, but why would they be concerned over a few bad apples that had already been rooted out?

“That all changed when someone witnessed the joining ritual, and lived to tell about what they had seen.” Morrigan says. “You see, It looks very much like blood magic.  _ T’is _ very much like blood magic. Then, not long after, Einhardt was assassinated. The Wardens blamed Hawke, of course, and the Anders blamed the Wardens. There were riots. Hawke, suddenly, was no longer a person the protesters could go to for protection, no, the Champion was now the de facto rallying figurehead in yet another war.”

Alistair has turned his face. It’s now cast in shadow, and Morrigan cannot make out his expression, but she still burns with resentment. She cannot help but let her words be colored slightly by spite. Alistair needs a villain to deliver his failings to him? Fine.

“Your order is unrecognizable, the people of the Anderfels are nearly wiped out. The streets of Hossberg have been running red with blood for three years.”

Alistair is silent for a long while.

“....And Hawke?” He finally asks.

And here it is. The final blow.

All for nothing.

“Captured by the Wardens two years ago.” Morrigan says. “And what better person to make an example of than the Champion?”

Alistair finally cracks. A quiet, half-aborted sob jumps from his chest. Morrigan takes no pleasure in it.

“No...”

“Hawke is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwooooooooo yeah!! gotta love that tension lmao
> 
> this kinda touches my prediction for what'll go on in da4, namely that no matter who ur warden was, the "right" decision was to save them and leave hawke.


End file.
